


because we need more highspecs in this damn tag

by BAEWIND, sophos (ians_carer)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Dom/sub, Edging, F/M, Femdom, Major character death - Freeform, Occasional fluff, facesitting, i guess since some of these take place after noct dies, ill add tags as they become relevant, im lazy, not really meant to be read in a cohesive order, these are more like vignettes, theyre both really emotionally constipated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 16:50:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 6,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13415505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BAEWIND/pseuds/BAEWIND, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ians_carer/pseuds/sophos
Summary: this is a collection of drabbles mostly taken from asks written by myself and my RP partner on tumblr. we realized we were holding a whole lot of highspecs content hostage and so we've decided to post our dumb shit here!





	1. thigh kisses

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to add the ask prompts in the notes section at the beginning of the chapter, as well as who sent in the prompt. this is something pretty tame... considering where we're gonna be going, so enjoy some little thigh kisses.

Aranea Highwind had always been a rather frightening woman to Ignis. Her loyalties lied nowhere, and she was terribly brash. She was the complete antithesis of him, a man whose life revolved around his loyalty to the king, who frequently went out of his way to cushion harsh truths on behalf his loved ones.

She was mesmerizing to him. And, he supposed, that was how he had quite by accident found himself in bed with the woman.

In defense of his poor judgement, Ignis had been slightly drunk when she had approached him in the only bar still open in the entire kingdom, her voice cutting through the haze of drunkards and music surrounding them. “Those new glasses suit you.” She had commented, taking a seat by his side without a thought, and Ignis snorted.

“I’m glad you think so. I believe Prompto picked them out for me.”

“The new hair does, too.”

“Are you trying to flatter me, Miss Highwind?”

“And if I am?”

It was one of the more impulsive moments in his life, and he later had trouble discerning exactly what had possessed him to do such a thing. Perhaps it was the liquor, perhaps it was the melancholy mood he’d found himself in for the past months that Noct had been locked away in the crystal, or perhaps it was Aranea herself.

Regardless, and with little memory of how he’d gotten there, he found himself in Aranea’s lodgings in Lestallum, knelt over her as they shared a heated, if sloppy kiss. “You’re pretty good at this.” she gasped, and he felt as she began to work at the buttons of his shirt. “Are you surprised?” Ignis had replied, his breath heavy against her throat as he pressed kisses down her body, hitching her skirt over her thighs as he did. He caught the hitch in her breathing, as well.

Once he became blind, Ignis became a much more tactile person. He could only experience people through touch, and it manifested itself through the innumerable kisses he pressed against her wonderfully soft legs, teasing her until she threatened to strangle him, her voice high and soft.

“Perhaps we can try that next.” His lips stretched into a smile.


	2. aranea makes scones!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's flour everywhere. On cupboards, on the counters, on the floor, and a liberal amount down the front of her shirt, pants and an abundance spattered over her nose. Still, the dragoon looks awfully pleased with herself as she holds up a tray of freshly baked scones ( and is very much ready to ignore the first four failed batches filling up their bins ). "You should try these, they're cherry."

It’s so terribly endearing in a way that makes his chest ache. The determination in her eyes, the flour spattered across her smug smirk and shirt and littered absolutely all over their kitchen (he will surely insist on cleaning it up) can’t help but spread a wide smile across his tired face. 

The botched batches are not missed by him, although really the idea that she’s put so much work into making something she thinks  _he'd_  enjoy far outweighs whatever they might taste like. Burnt or undercooked is of little concern to him when her eyes are so expectant. 

Gloved fingers lift a scone carefully from the tray, his other hand forming a barrier between the pastry and the floor, should any crumbs flake away when he takes a bite. And when he does take a small bite, really, they are absolutely perfect – buttery and sweet with cherry and he couldn’t possibly be more proud. 

He wonders how much work she really did put into this little treat, because last _he_  knew, her freezer was bursting with TV dinners and corn dogs. 

“Delicious.” It’s a simple praise, but he thinks that the rich, cherry kiss he presses to her lips say far more than his words ever could.


	3. after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It feels like there's oceans between you and me once again. We hide our emotions under the surface and tryin' to pretend everything's okay. But it isn't."

Words between them have never come easily. It was months before they stopped pretending to merely tolerate one another, years before either of them admitted love for the other. And even now, they have trouble dealing with the issues they have with one another in constructive ways – often letting their gripes go unsaid until the moment one of them breaks, begins to seethe and yell and say needlessly cruel things they don’t particularly mean (truth be told, Aranea often loses her temper this way far more frequently than he, but the times he has yelled and raged against her are far more memorable. Ignis can be unfathomably sharp with his tongue at the best of times, and when his temper is lost this is never more true than those regrettable moments).

But this is different.

He’s been gone for weeks – something he knows she doesn’t resent him for. She gave him space to go see Noctis again, waited as he went on that fateful trek to Insomnia, kept her fears to herself. But when Gladio and Prompto had finally returned to Hammerhead, Ignis was not with them. He’d wanted to be left on his own for a while, and far be it from them to take the time and space he’d so desperately needed to grieve. Ignis was not a man who deigned to do such things in the open, with others. Instead he’d stayed in the city. Cried over the corpse of his prince, his King, his first ever and best friend. The only person left alive on this world who knew nearly everything about him.

He’d walked the empty streets like a man possessed, passing by Noct’s school, the place he’d worked the summer of his senior year, the arcade Ignis remembered dropping him off at so many afternoons, his favorite diner to eat at when he was young.

Gladio and Prompto had promised him a few days, insisted that they would return to bring him home, and Ignis had been forced to bite back a harsh laugh.

_Home._

A novel concept.

But… Bring him home they did. To the dingy dusty stench of Hammerhead, into the embrace of Aranea’s waiting arms. When he returned though, he was a different man. Colder, distant, unresponsive to her touches, her attempts to reach out to him. It was a disturbing callback to the way he’d been just after Altissia all those years ago. Lost in the jumble of nightmarish thoughts in his own head – cutting out the world, and the people around him as he attempted to deal with all of his inner turmoil on his own.

And she gives him time. Weeks. And months. But eventually, something has to give. He knows that. But it doesn’t change the way his brows twitch – trying to pull together as she speaks, his lips pressing together and clouded eye staring resolutely past her shoulder in that uncanny way he has of knowing very accurately where someone is and just how to avoid their gaze.

He knows things between them are shattering beneath his feet while he stews in his own pain, grief, but he cannot find it within himself to push it away. After all Noctis had been through, did he not deserve to be remembered? To be mourned? A lifetime spent shoving his own emotions away, gently prodded and encouraged to share more and more of himself by a sweet young man with dark hair, Ignis only thinks it appropriate. To feel this pain as acutely as he is able. It’s the least Noctis should be afforded for his sacrifice.

“ _Of course it's not okay_.“ It’s the first honest thing he’d said in months. The first hint of what he’s been carrying on his shoulders, and as the words escape him, his voice… breaks. Cracks in his throat, in the air between them, and the next second the lump in his throat is gone, forced from him with a harsh sound – teeth grit in an attempt to keep his tears at bay – a struggle he ultimately fails.


	4. ignis gets thigh kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kisses slowly up the inside of his thighs, pausing only to bite and suck little bruises into his skin.

His thighs are beginning to tremble from the press of her lips – the game tonight was to see how long he could remain standing underneath the torture of her mouth, and so far he’s performed quite valiantly, regardless of how relentless she’s been.

The skin of his legs is covered in small bruises and bite marks – pink and purple decorating his skin in places no one will see in the morning. 

“Aranea…” He says, the words little more than a gasp by now, his cock leaking onto the floor, fingers reaching out to grasp at her hair.

By the Astrals, she’s going to kill him.


	5. thigh riding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> she's breathless and wanting, each gentle back and forth of her hips against his skin ignites the distant fire of want in her gut; pulled taut like a rubber band close to snapping. fingernails dig half-cresents into his shoulders and her gasps very loud in his ear. "you're doing so well."

_Aaaaaaah – hah – ahh…._

She writhes over the length of his thigh as though she might be a curious and desperate teenager, and her heat is hot and wet against his skin. His hands hold at her sides, feeling how she moves – a privilege he’s been granted, and not one that he squanders as she gasps and moans into his ear. 

Making him fully aware of just how much she enjoys taking her pleasure from him like this, of the hold she has over him. The small bit of touch her is allowed at her waist is not enough, and he thinks it may almost be worse than having been ordered to keep his hands above his head, or even tied up and away from him. 

Aranea has not granted him a single stroke of his cock tonight, but even so it sits heavy against his stomach, hot and wanting while her perfect cunt drags along his skin, while she races towards her release and his only pleasure is found in the insistent throbbing coalescing in his own hard length. Making his desires known, but keeping him in that blissful place of want and need, where his thoughts slowly dwindle down to that of little more than release, of how it would feel to be inside her, to feel her mouth on him, fuck – even just his own hand pulling at his flesh.

Ignis’ face turns just slightly towards her and his lips catch at the side of her mouth as she falls apart atop him.  **“I want you to come.”**  He says, his voice rasping more than he expects, and his fingers tighten just a touch around her waist. He wants to drag her faster, to truly see her lose herself from this but he also knows that once she is sated, her chances of offering him some relief goes up significantly.


	6. an argument

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You know, you can't just pick and choose when you want to love me."

It’s a biting remark – slices through the molasses-thick air between them with all the grace of a raging catopblepas, and Ignis: stoic, still, quiet, unreadable Ignis, with his empty eyes hidden behind reflective frames, and his mouth held in a ramrod straight line – flinches.

The truck they’re trapped in for the time being rattles his teeth and jaw and brain in his skull, his hand gripping the arm rest as if it might cause the shock absorbers to repair themselves autonomously. His cane clatters in the back, bouncing along the floor as it rolls off the seat, and his temples ache with each clang against the metal floor.

 **“Not now, Aranea.”**  He says, his voice steely – final. Utterly unwilling to discuss this with Prompto in the driver’s seat, and he hates her for bringing it up while another is around, while he’s got no means of escape (unless he wants to leap and roll from the car), and the irritation from the rattling of his cane increases, sharpens, and directs itself towards her. 

 _Why won't she bloody pick it up? Is she trying to drive me mad? Trying to beak me? Does she want me to rage and scream at her?_   Well, he won’t give her the satisfaction, if that’s what she wants.

His knuckles begin turning white against the armrest, but only Prompto is able to see it. 


	7. sunrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a sigh, an arm slung around his middle and her nose pressed between his shoulderblades. it's three in the morning and Ignis is probably asleep, but she can't scrub the scent of blood from her skin (not even the sharp pinch of blade oil in her nostrils will, nor the bleach she's used on her hands only a few hours before) and sighs into his skin.

It’s strange, how ten years of your life can collapse in one instant. One single sunrise and an entire chapter of their lives folds beneath the sheets, treated like one long nightmare. 

But the aftershocks of that nightmare still remain, and he knows this. Can feel it in the way her hands tremble sometimes, the way he himself has withdrawn from her. If what had happened to them has collapsed into the space of a night, then the effect its had on their relationship is tenfold – leaving the two of them floundering for a foothold in this new and not entirely welcome world of sunlight. 

It’s three in the morning, and Ignis thinks his chest has never ached so badly before, with her nose buried in the skin of his back, and he hates that the two of them are the way they are – independent and cold people who’ve never learned to go to others for comfort.

And so they are left alone, in the same bed. Aranea with her trembling hands, covered in blood only she can see, and Ignis, suffering and lost without Noctis, having never learned to live a life of own, and feeling fundamentally broken because of it. 

She thinks him already asleep, and he lets her.


	8. dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> she thinks he's sleeping, so she takes a moment to brush her fingertips down the line of his cheekbones, and the pad of her thumb over his lower lip. bathed in moonlight, he is finer than the most precious gem. fuck him, and his stupid, perfect face.

_“For the sword outwears its sheath,_

_And the soul wears out the breast,_

_And the heart must pause to breathe,_

_And love itself have rest.”_

Ignis has never been a particularly deep sleeper. Less so, now that he lives a life filled with such immediate and constant danger. It’s the chill of the room, the creak of his door that begins to rouse him, but only insofar that he is pulled into that state of consciousness that has him thinking everything around him must be a dream.

Has his mind chasing after visions of a young boy with a shock of black hair and a smile too big for his face. 

And then visions of a boy become a man, his eyes filled with something wiser, and more tender. A look that asks for apology as calloused fingers with stubby nails stroke over his face with such tenderness that it makes his heart ache. But in the dream, he doesn’t know why.

And then the real world bleeds further than the dream and the boy behind his eyes becomes someone else. Someone with green eyes too old for her face and silver hair framing the sharp angles of her face, grown gaunt by a world that treats her with a harshness she doesn’t deserve. 

Ignis’ eyes stay closed, because he wouldn’t be able to see her regardless, even if they were open. 

His heart feels like it’s torn in two.


	9. truck fucking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's cramped in the truck, and its almost hard to move as she wants, so each and every rise and fall of her hips is slow, but meticulous. he's beautiful like this, with his face buried against her collarbone and his fingers on her hips --- aranea's fingers crunch through gelled strands to tilt his face towards hers to she can press bruising kisses over his lips.

The windows are surely fogged – the heat from their breath and bodies forcing condensation upon them, barely obscuring the shadows of their bodes to any who might pass by. Not that he minds. Not now. 

Not with the way she moves over him, pulls at his hair and lips with a particular intensity he’s never felt from her before. Something passionate and dense – no, not like a diamond. Something closer to igneous. Crafted from the heat of a volcano, pressed down upon by cool air and hardened into something dark and shining. 

It feels surreal – this moment. 

Aranea pants into his mouth, kisses him so hard it almost hurts, and the breath from his nose is far too loud in the eerily quiet world around them. Each sound echoes off the uninsulated metal – compounds upon one another a creates a symphony he’s hardly unfamiliar with, but that plays in a different key tonight. 

His hips barely move beneath hers, unable to gain much traction on the musty seat, but he makes up for it with his fingers, darting between them to play at her heat, scrabbling for purchase on her shoulderblades, her spine, as she twists and pulls at him. 

 **“Aranea…”** Ignis breathes in the short space between them, the breath he uses to speak ghosting along the curve of her cheek and jaw as its spoken almost reverently into her skin.


	10. its not unusual (to be loved by anyone danananana)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tunelessly sings wayfaring stranger under her breath as she attempts to find her clothes; no sense in being quiet, he oughta be used to her trying to creep out of his room by now.

He is – intimately familiar with the sounds of her leaving his room. Neither of them are particularly deep sleepers, both for their own reasons, and he with a few new ones. And so surprise is not an emotion he feels when she leaves him naked, breathless, and boneless, tangled in his own sheets. 

Disappointment, perhaps? No… He cannot find it in himself to be disappointed with her. 

Resentment? No, not that, either. 

It’s something that makes his bones ache. A deep, all encompassing reminder of what they are to one another. A distraction, a meager bright spot in a world of darkness, and it’s silly how mundane it is for them now, that she no longer attempts even to hide her departure. And why should she? They both know that the other option is slipping away once he’s already drifted into sleep, and risk waking him once again. Thoughtful is what it truly is, not to hide their quirks beneath a threadbare rug. To leave before he’s curled himself around her like a cat curls around a toy. 

He has half a mind to wish her a goodnight, but fears it may spark a more complete picture of their many issues, force it to be brought to light before a time they are both willing to talk on their arrangement. 

And so he says nothing, and waits until he hears the door close behind her before he tugs the sheets up to his chest in an attempt to keep the pervading cold at bay.


	11. smile, igs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What I want? I don't want those empty smiles any more. if you're gonna do it, I want you to mean it. even if it's just in private, for me. Might be selfish, but a girl can dream."

Strange, how guilt and relief mix so flawlessly together. Leave him gasping for breath and his lungs aching in a way that begs to be emptied.

He feels empty. Broken. Lost.  _A failure_ , for – how could he be anything but? 10 years spent knowing _exactly_  what would happen once Noctis returned, 10 years of futile searching and studying and hoping and  _praying_  to the Gods and  _cursing_ them, a million futile attempts at circumventing a fate that had been ordained 2000 years ago…

And who was he, to think he might defy that?

What divine providence did he have, to challenge it?

But even so, the Gods had forced him to allow Noctis to walk away, to accept his fate and say goodbye a final time.

Living is a fickle and unrewarding thing – that which brings you joy will only ever result in sorrow, and Ignis lives as proof of it. To have given all of himself away, to have foregone so much in the sake of another, and to see it all ripped away for a bloody prophecy, to be so blatantly  _tortured_  with the knowledge of what must be…

No.

Ignis is still, he is on his knees and bent over to retrieve his fallen visor from the ground, and when Aranea speaks, he knows he is broken.

Because he  _doesn’t care_.

Fingers curl slowly around the arms of his glasses, come to rest with it in his lap, and he takes a long breath. 

Slow.  _Painful_. As each and every one of them are.

**“I can’t.”**


	12. thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time I thought of you. // this one is written in first person from ig's perspective.

**i.**

> Rushing blood and stinging blade and the sound of a cry – desperate and pained, and if I didn’t know better: a laugh, from the creature who maims you. The first hunt we’ve gone on together, and you’re  _dying_. Right before my – well, not my eyes, but my hands, I suppose. I am frightened, beyond belief. Still unsure and weak, but if I cannot protect you now, then I will never have another chance. This is what drives me as I rush straight towards what could very well be my doom. 
> 
> Fortunately, for the two of us, I am successful.

**ii.**

> I love you.
> 
> Words that I am hardly brave enough to  _think_ , much less say to you. They’re like a traitorous secret, cradled against my heart. Tucked away where they cannot be harmed, or seen. But they peek out today, as I join you for a visit to meet your comrades and friends. There’s not much reason for me to come, but I want to be near you… selfish as it may sound. And it looks like another side of you. One of the hundreds of facets I’ve grown to see over these years knowing you.
> 
> Gods… Has it truly been years?

**iii.**

> The war is over now, and it has left behind a world that is broken, a people… Who are broken. 
> 
> We are but two of them. Growing distant from that which bound us, falling away from those we considered comrades. Those who protected us from the long dark. I think there may be a word for it, but Astrals, I cannot find the energy to look just now. Because I miss you, though the words have been stuck in my throat. You and I are in pain, that much is certain, but sometimes I am selfish, love.
> 
> Sometimes I feel the sorrow in the curve of your spine and I am angry. ‘ _I’ve lost everything, can you not see that? Everything I lived for, everything I survived that bloody nightmare for is gone, and I am useless. Crippled and without purpose, without a reason to go on, save you._
> 
> _And it feels like you no longer want me.’_
> 
> Even still, despite all your teachings, I am weak. Unsure. Blinded and lost and scared. And I need you.


	13. ignis misbehaves pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lazily licks a long stripe up her stomach.

there’s something about ignis on his  _knees_  and as bare as the day he was born that  **thrills**  her. perhaps it’s how placid he seems, with his feet tucked under his  _arse_  or how she can see him wrestling with the  **urge**  to move without her permission :  a feat he has  _long since_  learned would see him denied any form of  **repriev** e.  he’s gorgeous like this, and wears submission well.

   or so she thinks : he touches her without her  _permission_ , the lazy drag of his tongue leaves a  **wet**  stripe of saliva up and over the muscles of her  _abdomen_ ; gleaming under the dulling light of their bedside lamp and **cooling**  uncomfortably. she wears her displeasure as one would a  _mask_. obvious in the curl of her  **lip**  and how she moves away from him, heels clicking against a  _chipped_  wooden floor — she is fucking divine and she will not be **disobeyed**.  aranea doesn’t leave him bound and  _alone_  with numbing feet and **fingertips**  from how still he sits, but moves enough that she’s out of  **reach**.  

    **“**    —  has it been long  _enough_  that you’ve forgotten how to  **behave**     _?_  seems someone’s been teachin’ you some  _bad manners_ , huh  _?_ **”**


	14. ignis loves on his not gf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He kisses across every inch of her skin, memory drawing a topical map of the curves and planes of her body with the aid of his lips and hands. Long fingers draw feather light lines over her waist and hips, drawing around and inside her spread thighs. "Let me..." He murmurs into her navel, his mouth pressing a long kiss onto her skin, sucking a sweet, small bruise into the flesh before him.

he kisses her like she’s something to be cherished, not knowing that she was once cast aside to die in the streets like an unwanted dog: left to the elements with the hope that the world take cares of the problem for ‘em. a forgotten daughter, discarded. he kisses her like she’s something to be treasured and revered not chased. it’s laughable, really, considering how they’d first found themselves in each other’s orbit, not realising that they were the only small mercy this world has to offer. aranea flinches from gentle because she doesn’t deserve it; hates it, almost, yet as his lips and tongue ignite a distant heat and tingle in her, she does little more than cherish the brush of his fingertips over her skin.

oh you sad, broken little thing. 

there’s something distant in her mind that tells her she doesn’t deserve to be treated like glass when she’s the shattered pieces over a marble floor, jagged and sharp and promising cut fingers if anyone were to attempt to clean it away. his fingers splay over her ribcage, shifting over muscle and ghosting over the ridges of her ribs like a pianist over ivory. aranea raises her head to PROTEST, ignoring the thrum of her heart against her ribcage ( she feels like she’s run a marathon when, really, she’s just laying debauched and trying not to fight against how soft he’s being with bruising kisses and gentle brushes ). she’s begged the gods for mercy before, only for them to fall on deaf ears; starving, on the brink of death, yet she finds herself now begging for reprieve from the gentleness —- mercy, mercy, i yield. 

his mouth will leave purpling bruises in his wake, though he has never let her leave any where others can see: it’s their sinful little secret, worst kept from the world around them when the walls are paper thin and have heard him bring her to rapture more times than enough; shuddering, dragging red welts over his shoulders. the heaviness of her footsteps when she leaves on trembling legs for her own, empty bed. ah, he knows how she bruises and how her stomach clenches. he’s unimaginably gentle. 

fuck him.

damn him.

she’ll mark him back, and he’ll sigh, ask her if she must.

and she’ll grunt noncommitally, because  
she’s a selfish bitch, really.


	15. aranea's thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the time i thought of you. // written in first person from aranea's pov.

i.   
the first time i meet you, i don’t get the chance to say hello, i leap for your prince like a cat with its claws extended and ready to devour. i was taught to not play with my food, but you come to learn that i’m not very good at following orders to the letter. i think back on that day more often than i oughta, like it’s gonna unveil the moment i realised that we could have something more than just want and circumstance : anything to suggest i might’ve avoided loving you in my own, fucked up little way. i find nothing but the flutter of butterfly wings in my gut and i attempt to drown them by chugging my watered down beer until the glass is empty and my head spins. 

ii.  
we bask in the afterglow as one might the sun, clinging to the momentary high as though it’s going to prevent the awkwardness from settling in, but it never does. my knees are weak as i swing my legs out from the cocoon of bedsheets you’ve tangled us in and begin tugging on my clothes. i am armourless when i sleep, and i am vulnerable enough that i can’t stand to be around you when i’m like that. the buzz of the radio helps stop the nightmares and as much as i wish i could fall asleep listening to the flutter of your heartbeat, i can’t bare to you my weaknesses — you are not my enemy, yet you’re not yet enough. I am cold, cruel, self-involved, yet when it comes to you i wish I could pluck my heart from my chest and give it to you that way. i can’t. you wrap your fingers around my wrist and instinct wrenches it from your grasp. i hate that you make me weak, and like a sledgehammer you’re forcing yourself into my heart. you’ve seen my arms and you’ve seen my self hatred, yet you don’t look at me with pity in your eyes, but a fucked up understanding that frightens me and makes me wanna run. 

it’s the last time i fall into you, i tell myself. the last time i fall into your bed like some lovesick teenager looking to love and be loved. i said it last time, and the time before that , but i mean it this time.

iii.

i blurt out i love you a few years after the sun’s come up. you were a mess, darling, but we both were — we still are — but it’s the first time I’ve said it, and we’re sitting on the porch of one of the old houses we’re trying to fix up for a family who can’t afford to ( I’ve dragged you along though you weren’t about to complain anyway ), beers in hand and my head on your shoulder. we’ve learnt to do that. love as honestly as we dare, and even after so long it’s new to us, but we take it one step at a time. i almost die in the breaths you take in the following silence, like there’s plastic over my face and I’m struggling to breathe. i’m sick of running away from myself, and I don’t want to run from you, either. i wasn’t expecting you to say it back… and it’s indescribable, like there’s catherine wheels igniting in my gut and i realise, as I take a sip of my beer and ruffle the organised mess you call hair…

that maybe settlin’ down ain’t so bad after all.


	16. they call this progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She has ruined him. Beneath her he is a canvas where roses bloom across his skin, where bruises collect like golden dust, and ruby bracelets circle his wrists. Aranea Highwind makes an utter mess of him, kisses him while his cock aches in her cruel fingers, and he begs for the chance to touch her. Let her rut against his body, like something to be used, let her use his mouth as her throne, he will answer to whatever she may deign to give.

the first time, he learns that she guards herself with barbed wire and razorblades; impenetrable as she so selfishly took from him what she wanted — each gasp and groan naught but a part of him to claim and conquer. small victories in how his fingers twitch against the curve of her hip as she rides him, and the heated huff of his breath ghosting over her skin. piece by piece he picks apart, a stray thread, unravelling a well-worn sweater with each drag of him inside of her. ah, she quivers ! keens, almost, and for the first time in a long time embraces the fact that she is so woefully human and cannot ignore the primal need to want and be wanted in return, even if her heart cuts his fingers every time he reaches for it. it ought to have started wearing down on her nerves, bristling and unsettling her enough that she prepares to flee into the darkness that monopolises her days and nights. it doesn’t.

it doesn’t and she’s confused. it doesn’t and it scares her. it doesn’t and she crawls right back to him to suck bruises into his skin and drag her fingernails down his spine until it’s red raw and tingling under the heat of shower water. jagged reminders to him that she was there and even though her side of his bed has long-since grown cold with the winter’s chill, is a living testament that she was there and that his sheets still smell like her and like their joining. 

don’t touch me.   
don’t you fucking dare.

fucked up, twisted, barbaric — she takes a perfectly normal man and bends him into whatever shape she wishes, pulling him closer and pushing him away at her own leisure with a muted indifference that no outsiders will see, and though he is sightless she is completely certain that he can see it. it frightens her. fingers thread into mousy strands, and her crown tilts so that she might bring her lips to meet his: a strange first that he accepts with a surprised groan and the twitch of his hands against the swell of her hips. confused, questioning, uncertain. ruined, he’s ruined, she thinks to herself, but his arms thread around her waist to hold her still as he thrusts into her and she feels a new kind of rapture that comes with the thudding of her heart against her ribcage. she feels bloodied fingers prying apart the wire and the razorblades, it’s cruel and unclean but she wishes that she had never met him.

he makes her weak. weak when he quips at her, weak at the knees, weak when he smiles that smarmy smile that she often finds herself wanting to slap off of his face. weak when she comes with her thighs trembling against his, and his teeth scraping against her collarbone, her breasts as his hips stutter to a halt. her first instinct is to roll off of him, but for the first time, it’s not to leave.

not tonight. tonight he settles in the spare side of his bed, and doesn’t protest when an arm snakes around her middle and a tentative kiss is placed between her shoulderblades.

just this once.


	17. radio silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She stands with him as an equal these days -- bright and fervent in a drifting haze of darkness, and though he no longer needs to, he still reaches for her. The desire for closeness with someone new, rather than a need. A want, not a necessity to keep his footing. 'Stay.' he wants to say. It burns the tip of his tongue and continues to live on his hands rather than his words.

his touch does not burn,  
but she almost recoils like it does.

there is little shyness for the nudity shared between them, the gods themselves know well that she knows every inch of his body as well as he knows hers; every dip of muscle, every silvery scar that mars their flesh, though his are more blatantly obvious than her own. it’s a dance well practiced, her laying awake until his breathing slows enough that it promises sleep, and the arm around her middle is like lead but easily enough moved without much disruption to him. perhaps there might come a day where the comfort of her own bed doesn’t beckon to her, but tonight isn’t one of those nights. 

she wants to cling to her pillow and listen to the buzz of the radio and the patter of rain against the window panes and await the tell-tale chime of her phone that tells her that she needs to leave on another mission for a few weeks, with prompto in toe and scavenging the ruins of niflheim for curatives or long-lasting food supplies and clothing that could be ultilised by the refugees so that the town doesn’t struggle quite as much. gods, she’s going soft. there’s a roll of her shoulder and she half twists to swing her feet out of bed, and shivering when her feet meet the floor. unfortunately with the death of the dawn, there came with it an insufferable cold, and native to niflheim or not, it’s fucking horrible.

it’s not until she’s tugging her underwear on, that she feels the brush of warmth against her bare hip and the dip in the mattress as he shifts closer, and her head half-turns to peer at him. the thing about not having anyone to return home to, is that she doesn’t have to linger longer than necessary. play pretend and hope that if – when – the light returns that nothing will have changed; the world will change, and so will they. twisted and broken out of recognisable shape by a world that was never kind to them: she, who doesn’t know how to rely on anyone but herself, and he, who doesn’t know how to rely on anything but a given fate whose path remains blocked off to him. still, the plunder through with their heads held high. she can see it in his eye, the unspoken request, and gods, she hates it.

that peculiar vulnerability is best kept for times where they’re not living mission to mission. so she pulls her arm away from him, and tugs on the rest of her clothes and offers him an excuse. she can’t sleep in silence. she needs the radio because it offers enough background noise for her to sleep peacefully and makes her way to the comfort of her own room. her own bed, her radio. she turns it on and settles against the sheets and waits for the news that it’s time to roll out again.


	18. uh. its just facesitting.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is smothered by her, her thighs on either side of his ears and he thinks he may be able to stay here for hours. She drips down his chin and his nostrils are filled by her musk -- his long fingers twitch with the desire to join them in his effort to push her over the edge.

if he cannot conquer heaven, then he will go through hell.  
face the impossible, and still come out on top victorious.

it’s clear in the slopes of his shoulders, the resolution in his eyes, though one is welded shut by fading scars. he never speaks of them, and nor does she ever have any desire to ask : he will either tell her in his own time or never at all, and she meets this realisation with a muted indifference, and an unwillingness to treat him as though he is unable to fend for himself against the horrors of the world outside of lestallum. aranea highwind will not pry him apart for information as some might upon seeing him, nor will she underestimate what he is capable of : he has gone through hell and back, with the weight of his loyalty upon his shoulders and never faltered. sightless is he, yet still he reads her as though she is an open book, trailing a finger down a rigid spine and opening her to his favourite passage.

like that. just there, and there again.

his tongue claims her like she’s something he wants, with thighs resting against his cheeks and his tongue dragging idly up the seam of her like a man dying of thirst, but with the laziness of one weighted with alcohol, sluggish, yet precise. from the ashes of her he draws fire, a distant scorch that curls her toes and brings her thighs to tremble around him, each languid and lazy shift of her hips over his tongue drawing unholy symphonies that are neither coherent or quiet — she begs for more, and even though she is on top, she is not in control. not now. he needs this just as much as she does, and where she might fel selfish, his tongue tells her that she’s a goddess, and with every shift of the tip against the apex of his thighs, he has every intention of forcing her to believe it, like she hadn’t once almost died in the derelict streets of gralea from starvation, or begged for potions to prevent a self-caused bleeding born from wanting it to stop.

ignis treats her as though she is something to be cherished; precious, delicate, almost, though the scars that mar her flesh tell otherwise, like fireside stories of valour that she doesn’t brag about. she has done what was necessary to keep herself breathing, and by extension, her men. for a brief, fleeting moment she considers reaching for him to trace the harsh, jagged lines of the scars upon his brow ( quirked smugly as though he knows how he is bringing her to ruin ), how he gazes up at her as though he can see her with total clarity.

shiva, please.  
I don’t deserve him. but gods, do I want him.  
I am cold and self-involved — wicked. I   
will no longer struggle against him.

her toes curl as the smoulder grows to a blaze; pleasure sizzling through her veins like a spark to water, magnifying with each roll of his tongue against her. ignis, sensing the arrival of her climax, doubles the pace and tilts his head so he might close his lips around her and suck. aranea fractures like the crack of a whip in a silent night, hips grinding down onto his wanting mouth and thighs tightening around his ears to the point where she’s afraid he might suffocate as she rides out the last lingering roils of pleasure that remain.

he tears her apart at the seams, and she breaks   
willingly. piece by fucking piece. gods help her.


	19. trains.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's a small gesture, but he leans his head on her shoulder as they ride the train together towards Tenebrae. Sunlight flickers past in even intervals, rushing across his limited vision like a strobe light, and his hand on hers is like a vice. Trains. Even so many years later, he can't seem to relax on one.

they never asked to be like this.  
fucked up remnants of the people they once were; tortured and plagued by minds once thought strong, yet with each rise of the sun, that necessity has been cast aside to bestow upon them the mantle of survivors. what will they do now that the war they were born into has been won ? sure as hell doesn’t feel like they’re victorious when she wakes up in cold sweats and reaching for him in the night. yet they offer each other little unspoken comforts, like how the bare pad her thumb travels over the ridges of his knuckles and back again; grounding touches, she hopes that they help. neither of them have ever been much good with their own feelings; never as open as books in regards to communication, but years and years of being together has taught them now to know without a word needing to be spoken.

ignis can be surprisingly gentle; he’s wiped away her panic with touches of forehead against forehead; lips against cheeks and soft hums assuring her that what’s happened is in the past and will not come back to haunt her — it always does, but Ignis allows her to live in the fantasy for the time being and prattles on about this or that and offers ample distraction from the ghosts that dance like shadows behind her eyelids. he’s good like that.

so she hums now, some vague little lullaby her mother had taught her when she was little to put her to sleep, crown tilting so her cheek might come to rest against the top of his head. focus on the rise and fall of her chest. you’re alive, ignis, and while the world might take everything else from you, you have this — your breath and the days ahead of you to do as you will. the ache and the anxiety will go away.


End file.
